


Cold Turkey

by SilverCyanide (LemonFairy)



Series: Recovery [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Detox, Gen, M/M, Other, Recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-08
Updated: 2013-06-08
Packaged: 2017-12-14 07:43:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/834405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LemonFairy/pseuds/SilverCyanide
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras believes in everything—and that includes Grantaire. Even when he’s a shaking, paranoid mess during detox.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cold Turkey

**Author's Note:**

> I struggled for a while over whether I wanted to do this as a normal chapter fic or as a series, but I eventually settled on series. Right now it'll read like a rather normal fic, but there will probably be some drabbles stuck in here as well, so I figured series was safest. Hopefully no one is super opposed to that!
> 
> Also, I have never been an alcoholic, so I haven't detoxed; experiences here are compiled from a number of recovering alcoholics' stories, but if something seems really off to you I apologize and appreciate any and all criticism. 
> 
> Trigger warnings in this chapter for paranoia/hallucinations/etc. basically anything that could come with alcohol withdrawal. Also for Joly lending medication, which is technically Really Dangerous.

When Grantaire wakes the next morning, his head is pounding. This in itself is not unusual, and so Grantaire does what he does most mornings and stumbles to the kitchen, cracks open the fridge, and reaches for a beer.

He’s met with nothing. A terrible, sinking feeling hits as Grantaire remembers that he and Enjolras threw out everything. He’s scrambling for his wallet to go buy more before he registers that Enjolras is actually sitting in his kitchen, speaking. When he tries to focus on what Enjolras is actually saying, his head spins. Grantaire turns and vomits into the sink.

“Gimme a second,” he can hear Enjolras say. Then what has to be Enjolras’ hand is rubbing circles against his back. Grantaire squeezes his eyes shut and tries to focus on the words Enjolras is saying through the pain in his throbbing head. “Yeah, he’s vomiting—I don’t know, when did we leave last night? . . . Mhmm . . . then yeah, Combeferre, it’s been since then.” Grantaire spits into the sink. So he’s on the phone then, talking to Combeferre. “All right, well—yes, give me a moment—” Enjolras hand moves from his back to tap the back of his head. “Can you talk?” he asks and Grantaire nods. “Great, I’m going to put you on speaker then.”

Enjolras moves away. Grantaire spits again and then stands up, scrubbing a hand over his face. He hears, a bit muffled by the fog in his brain, “Hello Grantaire.”

“Hey.” He reaches for a glass in the drying rack (actually clean, for once) and fills it with water, swirling and spitting a few times. When he turns to face the room, Grantaire sees that the phone is standing on the table next to Enjolras’ laptop, where he is typing away.

“Grantaire?” It’s Combeferre’s voice. He closes his eyes and nods.

“Yeah?” he says, gravelly.

“I just asked, how are you feeling?”

“Like shit,” Grantaire mutters, just loud enough he should be able to hear.

“That’s not surprising, you’re going to go through detox. It’s why Enjolras called me.”

“To detail my issues and failings to the world?” Grantaire says the words automatically, half a hiss behind them. Enjolras’ typing stops.

“No,” he says softly, “because I figured you would be more comfortable with me seeking advice from him than Joly about what type of treatment facility to help you find.” Grantaire snorts.

“’m not going into some fuckin’, like, rehab facility.”

When Combeferre speaks, he sounds as skeptical as Enjolras now looks. “With all due respect, a 30 day program is probably the most stable place for you to begin.” Grantaire shakes his head, strides over to the table, and plops down in a chair.

“Could you hang up?” Grantaire asks, and he’s trying to keep his tone even. Something about Combeferre being involved makes him really uncomfortable, and they can all sense it.

“Yes, sure. I’m sorry. Please call if I can be of any further help, all right?”

“Thanks,” Enjolras says softly before Combeferre hangs up. Enjolras follows.

“Why the fuck did you call him?” Grantaire tries to muster anger in his voice, but it comes out soft and weak.

“He has a medical background,” Enjolras re-explains, “Or one pretty damn close. I’ve been looking up things all morning—” He points to his laptop “—and it’s pretty clear that the severity of your addiction means that supervised detox is what’s safest.”

Grantaire shakes his head again. “No. Don’t—no, Enjolras, _listen_ , it’s not even because of… whatever, it’s …” He drops his head to his hands. “Do you have any idea how much those places cost? I could sell my fucking soul and still not have enough to pay for one of those.”

“Don’t worry about it.” The way Enjolras says it is so carefree, Grantaire _has_ to worry about it. His head snaps up.

“You’re not paying for this,” he says, and it’s the first thing he’s said with proper conviction. “Enjolras, you’re not. I’m not going to owe you that much.”

“Think of it as a gift then.”

“No. No, I’m not—for fuck’s sake Enjolras, don’t look at me like that, I’m not taking that much. Not in money, not in whatever. I’m _not_ going to owe you.” Grantaire rubs at his temples, and says more quietly, “I’ll stop drinking. It’s—what, like, a couple of days of bad stuff, I’ll get through it. I’ll just stay here to do it.”

Enjolras studies him. Those brilliant blue eyes trail over his face (eyes bloodshot, facial hair too long, hair a mess) and his hands (trembling already). Then, finally, he says, “Okay. Okay, you’re right, this isn’t my decision to make. But I’m not leaving you alone.” Grantaire opens his mouth to protest, but Enjolras continues. “Right now, your hands are trembling. Your head hurts and you’re nauseated, right?”

Grantaire nods. “Yeah, tha’s pretty normal for first thing in the morning. ‘m just hungover.” Enjolras shakes his head.

“No, you’re going through alcohol withdrawal. And over the next few days, it’s going to escalate to things like anxiety, insomnia, elevated blood pressure, possible hallucinations and seizures—a whole list of things. Detox _kills_ some people, Grantaire.” Grantaire just shrugs, but it feels like there’s a pebble stuck in his throat. He swallows thickly. “If you don’t want to go into a facility—I mean, I can’t make you, but _someone_ needs to take care of you. And maybe—“ Enjolras takes a deep breath. “Maybe you don’t want that person to be me, and I apologize for any assumptions I may have made about this, but unless you do have another person in mind, I would feel much more comfortable being here with you than being somewhere else.”

Grantaire knows he can’t protest with that. If he’s being honest, he doesn’t want to—he knew this would suck, but not quite to the level Enjolras’ is describing. Numbly, he nods.

“Okay,” he says, and looks down at his hands. The trembling is something he’s gotten used to when he hasn’t had a drink, but for the first time in years it really dawns on him how abnormal it is.

“Thank you,” Enjolras answers, and Grantaire thinks it sounds genuine. “Now, can I get you anything?”

Grantaire laughs, harsh and grating. “It’s my own damn apartment, I can do things for myself.” He stands up, a little bit dizzy, but goes to refill the glass of water he used earlier.  He drains half of it, and then gets himself aspirin from the cupboard and downs two of them with the rest of the water. Grantaire sets the glass on the counter and turns back to face Enjolras; he sinks into an elaborate, flourishing bow.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I am going to curl back up in bed,” Grantaire replies and he strides off to do just that.

 

Grantaire’s defense mechanism of curling into a ball beneath the covers causes him to doze off at some point, and when he wakes up he feels disgusting. His t-shirt sticks to him, and he can barely pull it off because of how hard he’s shaking. The headache hasn’t abated at all—in fact, it’s intensified—and his stomach is in knots. A wave of nausea grips him, and Grantaire is barely able to stay upright as he launches himself out of bed and toward the bathroom, which he just barely reaches in time

Whether from the pounding of his feet or the sound of his retching, Enjolras hears him get up, and he makes a soft, upset noise when he sees the predicament Grantaire is in. He flicks the light on, but Grantaire groans and squeezes his eyes shut as it makes the near-migraine worse, so Enjolras turns it back off with a soft, “Sorry.” The sink turns on, and a moment later a cool, wet cloth is wiping at the back of his neck. Enjolras turns his head, which makes another sharp burst of pain bloom, but then the cloth is wiping down his face as well and it does feel fantastic.

“Can you look at me?” Enjolras asks, but it’s not an order. Grantaire spends a moment bracing himself, and then opens his eyes. Enjolras is right in front of him, and it’s hard for Grantaire to focus on him. The pain, he thinks, is blurring his vision. “Can you see straight?” Grantaire makes a small, negative noise. Enjolras nods with no alarm. “They say that’s normal. How’s the pain?”

Grantaire groans. “Depends where.” Enjolras gives a wry half smile.

“Head, scale of one to ten?” Grantaire closes his eyes again and considers.

“Seven.” The small noise Enjolras gives lets Grantaire know he’s mentally marking this down.

“The rest of your body?”

“Four, four and a half.” Then, after a second, he adds, “And I’m freezing.”

“You’ve got chills,” Enjolras states. “That’s part of why you’re shaking so much. It might help if you took a shower.” Grantaire lets out a harsh, barking laugh.

“I can barely _stand_ , so no thanks,” he replies, but the rest of him is screaming to be clean. Enjolras, perfect fucking Enjolras, can tell.

“Do you think you could keep tea down? I can brew some while you get cleaned up.” Grantaire cough-laughs.

“I don’t have any tea,” he says, because does he _look_ like the type of person who would?

“You’ve got some now. Combeferre was nice enough to bring by groceries.”

“He _what_?” Grantaire stares, open and incredulous. “Look, Enjolras, that’s nice and all but this is _my_ apartment and my problem and I’m just… I’m not your responsibility okay? And I’m not your—your boyfriend or anything, or even really your friend. I’m not Combeferre or whatever, so stop it with the touches, and I’m not your kid, so stop it with the babying.”

Enjolras doesn’t like he’s been smacked across the face—he’s too elegant for that, no matter the circumstance—but he does look surprised. Slowly, he nods.

“I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable,” he says. “This is an abnormal situation for me as well. What would make you most comfortable right now, and is there anything I can do to help?”

Grantaire takes a few deep breaths. “You’re right,” he says, sounding a little disgruntled. “A shower would probably be good. And… yeah, maybe tea.” Enjolras smiles a bit. “But decaf!” he adds immediately, even though it’s not what he would usually drink. “I’m… jittery.”

Enjolras’ only question is, “Is chamomile okay?”

 

When Grantaire gets out of the shower, he does feel better—but only a bit. The sweat has cleared from his body, and he’s warmer for a moment or two, but he’s still trembling and got chills and feels like his heart is in his throat. The tea is soothing, but it comes back up almost immediately, and Grantaire’s stomach is a knotted, cramping mess after that.

Enjolras always asks first now, but after getting permission he wraps Grantaire in a blanket and tries to distract him with cartoons put on at a very low volume. It works for a little while, and Grantaire even falls back asleep. But that lends no relief, and when he wakes a few hours later, well into the evening, he feels even worse than before. To top it off, Grantaire’s skin is crawling and he wants to tear it all off. Apparently, he starts to too, because Enjolras grabs both of his hands and holds them still.

“Let me go,” he whines, trying to twists his wrists free but to no avail. “Just let me—I need to—”

“Grantaire—no, Grantaire… Grantaire, look at me!” he orders, trying to get Grantaire’s attention. Their eyes meet for just a moment, but when Grantaire drops his gaze again he’s stopped fidgeting.

“You’re going to be fine,” he says softly. Grantaire shakes his head.

“No, I’m—my skin, there are bugs under it, and there—“ He yanks his hands away, but presses them against his eyes instead of tearing at his arms. “And on the walls and the floor and—fuck, I know they’re not… I see them and I know they’re not there but… _they’re everywhere_.” Grantaire tries to take a deep breath, but it ends up shallow and ragged. “And my skin is on fire and my chest hurts and fuck, _fuck_ do I need a drink.”

Enjolras doesn’t think to ask before he strokes his fingers through Grantaire’s hair. Grantaire doesn’t think before pressing up into the touch, but then jerks away.

“I’m sorry,” Enjolras says quickly when he realizes. Grantaire shakes his head.

“No, no, it’s okay. It’s um… it’s fine.” He drops his head again, and when Enjolras doesn’t repeat the action, he butts his head against Enjolras’ hand. He can’t see the smile, but he can sense it as Enjolras strokes fingers through his hair once more. Grantaire is pretty sure he could stay like that for ages, even with the jitters gripping him, but there’s a sudden urgent rapping at the door. Grantaire cringes at the noise.

“Can I get it?” Enjolras asks softly, not wanting to overstep his bounds again. The knocking continues, and Grantaire nods rapidly just to get it to stop. When Enjolras answers the door, it is to a very frantic Joly who strides right in, drops on knee next to the couch, and presses a hand to Grantaire’s forehead. He clicks his tongue.

“You should be in the hospital,” he says matter-of-factly. Grantaire groans and rolls his eyes, but even that hurts.

“No hello?” he mutters sarcastically. Joly’s eyebrows rise.

“Not when you seem so intent on killing yourself.” Joly reaches into his satchel and pulls out a small orange bottle. “I shouldn’t do this, fuck I shouldn’t do this, but you’re probably crawling out of your skin right now so here.” He hands the pills over; Grantaire tries to read the label but he still can’t see straight, so it’s useless. Joly notices, and he holds his finger in front of Grantaire’s eyes. “Follow my finger with your eyes?” Grantaire does, though it’s a little slow. Joly sighs and stands.

“That’s lorazepam which is the generic for Ativan. It’s a mild tranquilizer, but it should help with the anxiety and the muscle tenseness, maybe some of the cramping. It’s also used as an anticonvulsant, which is good because seizures are common in severe alcohol withdrawal. These are one milligram pills, and there should be 26 left. Do half a milligram as needed right now, and—how long has it been since your last drink?”

“22 hours,” Enjolras supplies helpfully. Joly nods. Grantaire groans pathetically.

“Right, if they’re going to, delirium tremens normally set in between 48 and 72 hours sober; you’re already shaking quite a bit, but you’re coherent, so when you’re not—”  He turns to Enjolras. “When he’s not, one milligram every few hours. Ideally it’d be one every hour when he’s awake, but DTs can last five to seven days and it’s better to be on the safe side.”  

Then Joly turns back to look at Grantaire. He looks him up and down and sighs. “You’re sure I can’t convince you to get into a program right now?”

“Never,” Grantaire says, trying to sound forceful even though his voice is hoarse.

“Fine. But Enjolras—” Joly glances at him again “—if he starts having convulsions or runs a temperature over 102, you need to take him to the ER right away.” Grantaire starts to protest, but Joly shoots him down with a look. Then he grabs his bag and stands up. He makes it to the door before Grantaire remembers.

“How’d you know I was—y’know?” he asks, and Joly turns to look at him. There is softness written in his eyes.

“News travels fast, but… Combeferre.” His eyes lock firmly with Grantaire’s, and he gives a small smile. “We’re all really proud of you, Capital R,” Joly says and then shuts the door behind him.

 

Loathe as Grantaire is to admit it, the Ativan does help a lot. It eases some of the intense, jittering anxiety and the way his limbs feel like they’re too big for his skin. It does make him a bit drowsy, but it doesn’t put him to sleep, and so Grantaire spends most of the night pacing in circles around the couch. Enjolras dozes off there a couple of times (though he says he doesn’t want to, he’s only human) and the franticness of Grantaire’s steps does wake him; by the time the sun is rising, his frustration at Grantaire is thinly veiled, and so Grantaire locks himself in his bedroom. It takes another hour of pacing, but he finally settles down enough to wrap himself in four layers of blankets and fall into a restless sleep.

When he next remembers waking, the door is cracked open and Enjolras hands are cool against his skin. “Wha’s--?” he starts, but Enjolras shushes him with a straw.

“Drink,” he urges, and Grantaire clumsily wraps his lips around it and swallows. The water is cool and perfect against his tongue, but he goes too fast and ends up leaning over the side of the bed, coughing and spitting it back up.

“Easy, easy,” Enjolras murmurs, soothing. He helps Grantaire sit back and wipes his brow with a wet washcloth. “Can you speak?”

Grantaire hesitates, makes a few false starts, and finally says, “Yeah. ‘M… yeah.”

 Enjolras nods. “Good. It’s good you’re speaking again.” Grantaire rolls his eyes a little, and they burn.

“Sorry I can’t talk when I’m asleep,” he grumbles. Enjolras’ hands still and the look he gives Grantaire is quizzical.

“You’ve been awake three times today,” he informs, trying not to sound alarmed. “Even got up once, but you were never coherent. I was… starting to get worried.” He presses a thermometer into Grantaire’s mouth. “You don’t remember any of that?” Grantaire shakes his head but stops when the pain blooms behind his eyelids again.

“No,” he says when Enjolras removes the thermometer. It’s blinked yellow, and even though the numbers are still slightly blurry, Grantaire can tell they read 99.7. Another set of numbers—these red—blare at him from the alarm clock on his nightstand. It’s 7:24.

“Fuck, ‘s been like… over twelve hours.”

“So you understand my distress.” Enjolras flicks the light on, but Grantaire groans so he turns it right back off. “How are you feeling?”

“Crap,” he says, “Like yesterday, but worse.”

“Pain?” Enjolras has lowered his voice now, and it makes it easier to concentrate on delivering an actual answer.

“Head’s a 6, body’s around an 8.”

“Anxiety?”

“Like a thirty.” Enjolras reaches for the water again and pops open a bottle of pills Grantaire doesn’t remember being there.

“It’s been a couple of hours, not surprising it’s worn off.” He makes to hand them both over, but Grantaire’s hands are trembling too hard to handle the glass or the very tiny pill. Enjolras holds the straw up to his lips again and gives him the Ativan. Grantaire swallows without too much trouble or protest. “What else can I do?”

“I need t’ shower,” Grantaire mutters. “The um… the water’s good. ‘ve gotta have some painkillers aroun’ too.” He tries to gets up, but his strength fails him and he stumbles; Enjolras catches him.

“I’m going to help you to the bathroom,” Enjolras says, and Grantaire knows there is no arguing with that so he allows it. Secretly, he’s glad there was no choice. He knows he’d make the wrong one.

His legs might not work right, but he can sit, so Grantaire throws his clothes on the bathroom tile and settles on the shower floor. Enjolras trusts him enough to bathe himself (and Grantaire ignores that the door is still cracked open), and when Grantaire gets out of the shower there are fresh clothes sitting on the counter. He manages to put them on, still shaking, and sits on the toilet seat to try and gather himself. Enjolras knocks gently at the doorframe when he comes back.

“Are you up for trying some food?” Grantaire’s groan is a telling response, and so Enjolras quickly clarifies, “It’s just broth. You need to get some fluids into you.”

“I can try.” He accepts Enjolras’ help and doesn’t even protest when he gets settled on the couch instead of in the kitchen. Even though he’s been sleeping most of the day, Grantaire finds that he barely has the energy to lift the mug full of broth that Enjolras gives him, and when he does he has to sip it slowly. He’s still a little bit nauseated, but the liquid stays down as does the half a bottle of water he manages to drink. Enjolras turns the TV on to some cooking show, trying to keep Grantaire’s attention on something other than the aches in his body and mind. The two of them curl on the couch, a little space between their bodies, until eventually Enjolras dozes off.

It starts quietly, or at least quiet enough Grantaire can convince himself he’s just mishearing things. “You’re stupid,” the lyrical, female voice says. “You’re useless.”

“’m not,” he mutters.

“You’re a useless drunk. Never going to be good enough, and you know it.” The words escalate in volume. “Powerless fuck up, who disappoints the people around him. You know it, too. Know you bother everyone around you, that you don’t have any friends. Courfeyrac hates you. Combeferre made sure everyone else does. Enjolras pities you.”

Grantaire stands up suddenly, clenching and unclenching his hands into fists. He doesn’t know where it’s coming from, but that doesn’t matter, because what he does know is that all of this is real.

“That’s the only reason he’s here you know. He wants to watch you disappoint him again, so he can tell everyone how worthless and stupid you are. They’ll have a good laugh at that—of course they will, stupid Grantaire, failing again. Not that they don’t know you’re a disappointment. Oh, they do. They only keep you around for a good laugh, to mock you behind your back.” Grantaire is in the small kitchen now, pacing back and forth. His palms are pressed to his temples.

“They’re not—they—”

“No, they do. You know it, always. And of course, you’re too weak to leave. You’ve always been weak, you’ll always be weak. It’s no wonder Enjolras hates you so much, who wouldn’t hate—”

Grantaire kicks a chair, hard in frustration. Across the room, Enjolras jolts awake. “Wha’s…?” He turns his head and spots Grantaire, hands pressed over his face. “Grantaire?” He keeps his voice gentle, but Grantaire doesn’t look at him.

“Grantaire?” Enjolras repeats. He approaches him with caution; Grantaire looks up at him with wild eyes, tears already forming. “Hey, it’s okay, breathe, okay?” Grantaire nods and he doesn’t remove his hands, but he does sit down. Enjolras fills a glass with water and gives him another Ativan, because he isn’t sure what else to do.

“They were—I shouldn’t—you—” Grantaire can’t form the words. He can’t do much of anything. But he can cry, and he does, in shuddering sobs. For lack of a better idea, Enjolras pulls Grantaire into a hug and lets him wear himself out. Grantaire slumps against him, and Enjolras rubs his back. The voice is still there, but it’s much quieter, and Grantaire can push himself to ignore it. The tranquilizer is really kicking in, and so he’s at least physically comfortable and is half nodding off.

“I know I didn’t ask,” Enjolras begins softly, “You were in the shower, but I changed your sheets earlier. Would you like to try getting some sleep?” Tentatively, Grantaire nods, and Enjolras helps him do just that. His head feels pleasantly almost empty, and the sheets are actually nice against his skin—he’s not sure the last time he changed them. Grantaire wraps himself in a blanket cocoon, but he’s only out for an hour.

He wakes to the feeling of his heart racing, pounding against his ribcage. His thoughts are scattered and jumbled, and the first coherent one Grantaire can recognize is that he is utterly, absolutely sure someone is going to hurt him. He falls out of bed, blanket still wrapped around his shoulders, and crawls into the corner between the bed and the wall. He pulls the blanket tighter around him and tries to breathe, but to no avail: his chest is tight, and Grantaire is certain he’ll die. Every shadow across the wall seems like it’s coming for him; bugs are crawling under his skin again; he is never going to make it through this. He is going to die here, by suffocation, or by someone coming into stab him, or by these stupid ants burrowing beneath his skin.

There is no other option.

It’s not until he’s coming down from the intense panic, paranoia and dread still lurking in his veins, that the bedroom door opens. He must have been crying too loudly (though when did he start crying? Grantaire isn’t sure), because Enjolras’ perfect voice says, “Grantaire? What’s wrong, where—Grantaire?” Grantaire raises a hand even as he curls further into his blanket. Enjolras hurries over and kneels down in front of him, but Grantaire buries his head against his knees, trying to disguise his shallow breathing and intense shaking. When Enjolras lays a hand atop his knee, Grantaire jerks away.

“Don’t,” he chokes out, “D-don’t, you’re going to—don’t touch me, don’t be here, I’m going to die don’t don’t don’tdon’tdon’tdon’t.” He starts crying again, and Enjolras leaves. He comes back a few minutes later with a glass of apple juice, another two Ativan, and a few painkillers. Enjolras crouches in front of Grantaire but doesn’t touch him.

“You’re going to be okay,” he says. “I promise. Can you take a few deep breaths?” Grantaire shakes his head but does anyway. “Good, that’s good. That’s it. You’re going to be fine. You just had a panic attack, but it’s going to pass.” Grantaire peeks his eyes up. “I asked Joly, he said two of these should knock you out and definitely relieve the anxiety.” Enjolras extends his hand and Grantaire grabs the pills and downs them with the glass of juice. Relief spreads across Enjolras’ face, and it strikes Grantaire just how much of a mess he must look.

“Can we get you back in bed or would you prefer to stay here?” It’s a genuine question, not mocking him at all, and Grantaire appreciates it. He hesitates.

“Could I… maybe stay down here?” His fingers dig into the comforter around him. Enjolras’ expression softens.

“Of course.” Enjolras grabs the two pillows on the bed and settles them on the floor near Grantaire. Grantaire curls his body around them like a cat in some sort of nest. Enjolras strokes his hair until he falls asleep.

 

The next time Grantaire wakes up, there’s sunlight skirting around the edge of his curtains. His head and body still hurt, but the pain is duller and not nearly as bad as it was. He’s still trembling and spends the day going between chills and hot flashes, but by the time evening rolls around Grantaire is able to feed himself the soup Enjolras heated up without spilling it everywhere and keep it down. It’s Friday (already, Friday) and there are bad Lifetime movies on that Enjolras hates, but this is Grantaire’s detox and Grantaire’s apartment so Enjolras can’t protest when Grantaire burrows in a blanket turns one on.

It’s during one of the commercials that Grantaire studies Enjolras, who is typing something on his phone. The thoughts that have been nagging at him the past few days slip out. “Why are you here?”

Enjolras glances up. “What do you mean?”

Grantaire shrugs. “Why are you here? Like… why did you come, that night with Courfeyrac, and… why did you… stay?” Enjolras pushes a few more buttons on his phone and then sets it down.

“I came because I was worried about you.” Grantaire’s eyes widen. That… that is not what he had expected. “And I stayed because you needed me to. Well—someone to.”

“ _Why?_ ” Grantaire’s voice cracks around the word.

Enjolras’ gaze holds steady as he replies, “Because as your friend… I care about you. And yes—yes, okay, I do feel responsible, because _you’re my friend_. But above all, I believe in you—I have _always_ believed in you and that if you wanted to do this you could. So… when you actually said you wanted to, it was my place to do whatever I could to help.” Grantaire swallows.

“Because we’re friends?” His voice is quiet and tentative.

“Because we’re friends,” Enjolras confirms. The commercial break ends, and the hope Grantaire hasn’t felt since Tuesday evening surges through him. He hides his smile and continues watching. 


End file.
